


The Dragon's Hoard

by Roadstergal



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Interspecies, M/M, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:19:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smaug is afforded a second chance - but is there any trusting a dragon, when he's intent on avenging himself on a thief?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kahvi for inspiration and beta.

The night was oddly quiet, eerily quiet - quiet in the manner of the breath held in anticipation of a blow from a drawn-back fist. The birds and insects and various nocturnal creatures had stilled their activity, or departed for safer regions.

Was it all just for the anticipated battle between Men, Elves, and Dwarves? Something tickled the back of Gandalf's mind, something _not quite right_ \- but he had other thoughts,, other matters that needed attention.

He pulled the rough cloth cover off of the Arkenstone. Even in the dim moonlight that filtered through his tent, it gleamed brightly, the colors of the moon trapped, refined, and enhanced in its uncountable facets. Clever hobbit indeed, Gandalf thought. The little fellow had indeed exceeded his expectations. Stealing the Arkenstone from under the noses of Smaug and the dwarves!

The dwarves would have it back, one way or another, and Gandalf had great hopes for the least bloody of the possible means. Yet before it was back in their hands, it must be emptied.

Yes, the Arkenstone was a container for the spirit, a trap for the unwary soul - and one soul was trapped very firmly within. A soul without a body - which meant some very tricky magic indeed. Gandalf had requested this tent and utter privacy, and such was the respect he commanded among Man and Elf, that he had been immediately granted these, without question. Gandalf tore his gaze away from the Arkenstone and set to work.

A square of fine, elf-spun silk, laid on the ground, to contain the body. Atop it, a fewmet of the dragon's - a very potent foundation for a new form. Gandalf crumpled simbelmynë in his hand, letting the juices soak in; the flower that rises from the grave, life from death. He touched his staff to the Arkenstone, then, speaking powerful words of magic that the writings of men are not allowed to contain.

The bundle on the floor took shape, lengthening, arms and legs budding, as the Arkenstone throbbed with light, strongly and steadily, a heartbeat of magic. Directed by Gandalf's staff, the magic flowed from the beautiful gem to the body on the floor, feeding it, filling it, until the stone was empty.

Gandalf took a deep breath, letting the tension flow out of his body. He watched the figure on the ground twitch, then move its limbs - awkwardly, discovering its new body, its unexpected joints. The figure finally made its way partially upright, sitting splayed on the ground, blinking in the moonlight. His face had the smoothness and ethereal beauty of an Elf, but it was twisted in irritated confusion.

"Smaug the Avari!" Gandalf barked, and the eyes darted towards him. "You are a dragon no more." He leaned forward, unable to suppress a smile at the awkward movements of the Elf. "You might find your old form takes some getting used to."

"You resurrected me?" Smaug asked, his rich voice marred by petulance. "I did not ask for this!"

"Neither did I," Gandalf replied. "Yet you kept the Arkenstone in your hoarde, and let your dragon's heart rest atop it. I would have far rather had the brave men of Lake-town who perished by your hand be brought back. Yet I have no power over death, and the Valar have seen fit to have you survive your dragon's body." Gandalf felt ire come over him at the contemptuous twist of Smaug's lip. He stood, drawing his eyebrows together, and Smaug quailed. "Dragonkin! Do not show contempt for those who stood against impossible odds and fought for what they believed in! Ten of your cowardly ilk would not add up to one of them. You sat atop your treasure for years uncounted, unsatisfied and irate, while the Men whose lives were not a fraction of the length of yours lived and loved, bringing music and art and all good things into this world. You wasted your time here." Gandalf sat, then, tired, and poked at Smaug with his staff. "Your power to harm with fire and talon has been taken. Go, and try not to waste the second chance you have been given."

Smaug stumbled to his feet, swaying dangerously at the unexpected feel of walking on an Elf's two legs. He stumbled out of the tent, trotting nude into the night.

The wood-elves would take him in, Gandalf knew, but what would happen from thence, he could not say. It was in the hands of others, now.


	2. Chapter 2

Darkness was new, to Smaug. Even in the depths of the mountain, his own internal fires had lit the caves around him, leaving him in a pleasing eternal twilight - only broken when he chose to leave the mountain, to bask in the bright eye of the sun and indulge in some sweet horsemeat.

No fire lit his way now. Small ones flickered like beacons in the distance, and as he walked towards them, he stumbled over roots and bushes, staggering about awkwardly on his two feet. Two feet! Arms, with hands! No wings, no massive prehensile tail to balance him. What a miserable form he had been reduced to! The form of his youth, weak and soft and awkward, before his love of treasure had turned his heart hard and scaly, his body following.

"Who goes there?" a voice asked, ahead, stepping between Smaug and the nearest campfire. An elf, Smaug noted, feeling a moment of panic before realizing that he, too, was now elven again.

"Elf-kind," Smaug gasped. "Homeless from the Dragon." Well, it was true enough.

"Homeless?" the wood-elf asked, looking at Smaug dubiously.

"Helping the Lake-Men," Smaug snapped, and the elf relented. Smaug was brought to the fire, fed, and clothed. Such silly things to concern oneself with - clothing and warmth! And yet, Smaug could not deny that the clothing was soft and pleasing on his body, and the roots, mead, and honey slid delightfully along his palate. He tried to resist the urge to _enjoy_ this body.

He answered questions asked with noncommittal grunts, turning the conversation to the campaign. "A company of armed elves, and with the dragon dead?"

"We march against the dwarves," one replied, sharpening his slender sword. "They will not provide us with the rightful share of our treasure, or the men with the means to rebuild their city. And so we make war against the dwarves together."

"And the Barrel-Rider!" Smaug snapped, feeling rage boil inside him. "The thief!"

The other elves looked at him curiously. "Barrel-rider?" one asked. "Do you mean the Halfling-thief, the Baggins? He has returned the Arkenstone to the elves. We bear him no ire, now - unlike his erstwhile comrades."

"Ah... right," Smaug muttered, looking down. "We fight the dwarves." Yet he felt no more ire against the dwarves than he did against the men and elves - all of which could drown in the river together, for all he cared. But he carefully remembered those two names. _Halfling_ , he told himself, as the elves outfitted him with a spare set of armor and a slender elven spear. _Baggins_. He would stay to the rear of the fighting, letting the battle play out. Then, he would hunt the Baggins. He had no hoard, now, no tail, no fire, no powerful Dragon-body, no people.

But he would have his revenge.


	3. Chapter 3

It was difficult enough, avoiding the battle. And indeed, Smaug did not avoid it entirely; the goblins were thick on the ground, and he had to engage or risk abandoning the safety of his company. Some enthusiasm for the fight had come to him as he saw the monsters advance, to be sure. He had not liked the goblins when he was a dragon; nasty little creatures, who tried to steal his treasure all too often. They had tasted filthy and bitter, and he ran them through with dark glee, the shock of a squirming body impaled on his spear so much more urgent and visceral than the casual crushing swipe of a tail.

He had, despite himself, joined in gleefully with the celebration once the bloody victory was theirs. _Theirs_. The concept was strange to Smaug. He had known only _mine_ and _yours_ prior, and the latter had always been a situation to be rectified. This idea that _mine_ and _yours_ could be brought together into a strange new synthesis - well, this was a concept that required much pondering, and much mead. His head was not used to the latter, and he tried more and more of it, enjoying this strange, gleeful sensation that eased him from the trouble of thinking, and the fire it lit in his throat and belly - not quite as potent as his old natural fire, but it would do. He snorted a laugh at the dubious look on the face of the elf next to him - the same one who had found him naked in the woods... he dug through his memory for a name. He would have to learn names, wouldn't he. "Surinder," he told the elf.

"Yes," the elf replied, "and I believe you've had quite enough..."

"Not enough." Smaug held the finely carved wooden mug close to his chest, looking at Surinder suspiciously.

The other elf raised his eyebrows, but then glanced sidelong at something behind Smaug, poking him in the ribs. "There's your - Barrel-Rider, is that what you called him? You'll have to tell me how he came by that name..." The elf's eyes were glittering as he smiled, but Smaug paid no attention. The Baggins, the thief... he turned around, seeking the creature. Would he be squat and hairy, like a dwarf? Twisted and filthy, like a goblin - or tall and reeking Orc-evil?

"Next to the wizard," Surindur murmured, and Smaug almost choked.

The creature sat atop the table, next to the wizard - he could hardly have reached the food on the tall table if he had sat on one of the elf-chairs. He was small, but perfectly formed, unlike the stocky dwarf-kind. His face was fair, almost elven in its beauty - but far too merry for elf-kind. He grinned as Gandalf leaned towards him to speak in his pointed ear, and his blue eyes danced with answering glee.

Smaug drained his mug of mead, desperately needing that fire in his throat again. His body felt odd, seized by most un-dragon-like feelings. He did not know what to do with them, what to name them - only that they were potent, and frightening.

"Say hello - he's a most amicable fellow," Surinder poked Smaug, and the elf staggered to his feet. But he could not approach the Halfling - he ran to the side, away from the celebration, towards the tent he shared with Surinder and some other damndable elf whose name he did not care to remember, driven by nameless dread.

He fell on his pallet, and his trousers were tight and uncomfortable. As he loosened them, staring at his rigid part within, distant memories tickled his mind, of being in this body, uncountable centuries ago. Words that were meaningless to dragon-kind - _desire, lust_ \- emerged from a long-dead part of his mind, and he grasped himself with a gasp. Instinct took over, and he stroked himself hard and fast, crying out as waves of pleasure overtook him, vague thoughts floating through his mind of fair, curly hair, bue eyes, and his tongue tasting meat sweeter than man-meat.


	4. Chapter 4

Smaug sat in the Lake-town tavern, feeling rather irritated.

The worlds of men and elves were far too confusing, he decided. So many rules and conventions, none of which were explicitly set down - was he supposed to read minds?

The wood-elves had seemed welcoming enough, and so he had followed them; the Baggins had departed with Gandalf, and Smaug wanted nothing more to do with the wizard. He could find the Halfling later, when he had found time to understand his mind again, and discover what revenge was truly called for on this strangely alluring thief.

While hunting and feasting was enjoyable, Smaug's body would not stop sending him those intense feelings of desire when he thought of the Baggins - the ones that left him stiff and wanting. The type of release he had given himself, back in the tent, lost its satisfaction rapidly. He had vague memories of when he was in this body before, mutual pleasure, something about 'sex;' during the feast after one successful hunt, Smaug had proposed sex with Surinder. That was when it had all turned, so swiftly. Smaug found himself out on the road with a small bundle of food and a short sword, and a tart request to never return to the Mirkwood. Why? Did the elves not have these desires he had? Smaug found that hard to believe, but he was clearly no longer welcome with the elves. He therefore made the short trek to the nearest town of men.

Lake-town had welcomed him - the memory of the assistance of the wood-elves in rebuilding their city and winning their share of the treasure was still fresh. Yet the first time he had asked a comely young man - not as appealing as the Baggins, but he would do - the boy had backed away, and the attitude of the townsfolk towards him changed, rapidly, like the first gust of cold winter air on an autumn day.

As Smaug stared morosely at his drink, a man approached him - a merchant, by his travel-stained clothing. He spoke in a roundabout way in a low, murmured voice, talking about his travels from the Sea, his loneliness, the beauty of Smaug's face and un-elflike red hair; the conversation lead inexorably to the room the man was renting for the night. They made their way thence, and the man began to unfasten Smaug's shirt.

"Such things aren't done," he explained when Smaug asked why he hadn't simply said what he wanted, down in the bar, "'least not by decent folk, you see? But I'm not decent folk..."

It still made no sense to Smaug, but the man showed him how sex should work between two men, and they had it. Although it had its satisfaction, it felt oddy impersonal; the man had his back to Smaug, and was hairy in odd places, and had the rank odor of too much time on the road with too little washing. He made noises that indicated he was enjoying it, and gasped out pleas for Smaug to go faster, harder, and Smaug felt no little irritation for being ordered around like that.

Afterwards, the man wanted to talk, and Smaug resigned himself to dull conversation about topics of no interest to him. The man spoke of the pearls he had picked up from the sea - Smaug was startled to find that this man could make even treasure dull, with his talk of sizes and impurities and value per weight - and would take to Gondor to sell. "The men there love their pearls, to give to their women and decorate their armament. I still need to decide, before I depart tomorrow, if I will make straight for Gondor, or delay by a month or two to visit the Shire. The halfling-weed is beloved by more than just the Rangers, and I had a good price for it last time."

"Halflings?" Smaug interrupted.

"Yes - have you not seen halflings?" the man replied. "They are odd folk, for certain, but excellent cultivators. You should come with me to see them..." He stroked Smaug's hair.

Smaug debated the options briefly. He could have a guide to take him to the... Shire, and to find that Baggins, and... well, get the worth of his treasure, in one way or another. The cost of this plan would likely be more bouts of sex with this odious man. He weighed the tradeoffs carefully.

The next morning found Smaug in a cart drawn by asses, holding the reins and pretending to drive it. The beasts knew the way, and he had little enough to do but watch the road pass by. The merchant stayed in the the back of the cart, making calculations and plans, and so Smaug was left to his own thoughts. He would go to the Shire, leave the merchant, and find the Baggins.

What to do after that - these plans would not solidify, in Smaug's mind.


	5. Chapter 5

Spring was in the air, a spring doubly delightful for being a spring that, at certain points along the recent adventure, Bilbo had not been quite sure he would ever again see from the comfort of Bag End. But the crocuses had peeked out their first buds some weeks ago, and the strawberry and tomato plants were flourishing (he really needed to speak with Old Gamgee about getting one of his boys to work in the garden), and the Longbottom and Southern Star of the last year was well-cured - one of the Took boys had brought a packet of each over for him to sample (certainly in the hope of getting a present, which he of course did).

Yes, Bilbo was well pleased with the warm spring weather, and particularly the fact that he was still around to enjoy it. He fixed an appropriate dinner - a cool spring dinner, to contrast with the warmth, of baby spinach from his garden mixed with onion, pine-nuts, dried apples, and currants from his larder, cold tongue and cold chicken, beer, and a seed-cake he had baked plenty of that day. His adventures had resulted in him being satisfied with rather lean rations, for a hobbit - yet another thing for his neighbors to tut about. As he was rich, they were forced to tut into their hands or behind closed doors, which suited him well .

It was a hobbit who was very pleased with life indeed who sat outside of his door, enjoying the clement weather with a pipe of fine weed indeed, blowing an odd smoke-ring and chuckling as he watched it drift over the green fields of the Shire. What great events had started with a simple smoke-ring, before!

He noted a figure that walked up the path toward his door. It was too tall and lean to be a hobbit; a man, then, or an elf - it lacked the flowing beard and robes of Gandalf (who had not stopped by for so much as a tea or luncheon, as yet, since the end of their adventures).

"Well met, friend?" Bilbo called out as the figure came closer. It looked up at him sharply - an elf, assuredly, with that smooth face and those pointed ears.

The elf did not respond, at first, walking closer instead until he stood in front of Bilbo, looking down at the seated hobbit. "Baggins?" he said, his voice deep and oddly familiar, tickling at the back of Bilbo's mind and daring him to remember where he might have heard it previously.

"Bilbo Baggins, at your service," he said, expansively. "Sit down and share a pipe." He paused, stumbling over the conventions of hospitality. "Unless you don't indulge - you folk don't, do you?" The elves could be strange that way, he remembered.

This elf, however, sat down and stared curiously at the pipe, and the ribbon of smoke coming out of its bowl. "I have never tried that."

Bilbo took a pull on the pipe and exhaled the warm smoke, by way of demonstration, then passed the pipe to the elf, who took an experimental pull himself. He passed the pipe back, the surprised smile on his face oddly un-elven in a way Bilbo couldn't quite put his finger on. "Fire in the throat. I think I like that."

"As well one should," Bilbo replied. "Er, your name, friend elf?" The elf had _his_ name, after all, and had shared his pipe.

"Smaug," the elf replied, licking his lips and staring at the smoke that Bilbo blew from his lips.

"Smaug?" Bilbo replied. "You have a dragon's name?" Surprise overcame good manners.

"I _am_ the dragon," Smaug replied. "Gandalf brought me back - in this body." His lip curled momentarily.

"The dragon! Well, who ever heard... but it _is_ Gandalf... and he generally knows..." Bilbo struggled with this concept. The elf could be lying, but something about his manner and his appearance lent credence to his story - and that voice... _I kill where I wish, and none dare resist._ A shiver ran down his back. "What brings you here?" Smaug was here for his treasure again, most assuredly, and perhaps a bit of revenge, too, and Sting off in a trunk in the third storage-room...

"I wanted to see the thief," Smaug replied, looking at him curiously.

"Well, you've seen him," Bilbo replied, defiantly. "What do you think of him?"

"Not what I expected," Smaug replied, not ceasing his looks, which made Bilbo uncomfortable.

"Well, you've had your look, so perhaps you have other business to see to?" Bilbo replied, trying to be brave.

"None at all," Smaug purred.

"Well, I do, so if you can excuse me?" Bilbo stood and opened the door to his hole. Perhaps he could bluff his way to the third storage-room. In the future, he considered, he should perhaps store Sting somewhere more accessible, like the umbrella-stand...

The door swung shut behind him, and Smaug's hands were on him. Yet instead of being run through, or trussed up, or the like, he found himself pressed against the wall of his entry-room and kissed, aggressively and firmly.

Now, you shouldn't think that hobbits don't like sex, even though they rarely speak of it. It is a fun and merry thing, after all, and hobbits like all things fun and merry. They merely like this particular activity to happen behind closed doors, and remain there. So kissing and its joys were not unknown to Bilbo. Yet he had always considered himself one of nature's bachelors, as they tended to spring up in Hobbiton, a few per generation. No hobbit-lass had ever particularly caught his eye, despite many of them trying all too aggressively to catch his eye since he had come back not quite a year ago, laden with treasure.

This, however, was different, and exciting in new and interesting ways. Bilbo did not know what this had to do with dragons and treasure, but Smaug seemed to have some idea, and Bilbo followed along, gamely. He had heard that sex hurt, the first time, and this turned out to be true; there was some squirming and some pain and no little discomfort at knowing they were making a mess of his nice dining-table, but all in all, it was pleasing and thrilling.

Bilbo was at least successful in moving them from the dining-room to the bedroom afterwards, where Smaug shed the rest of his clothes and unceremoniously joined Bilbo in the bed, without so much as a pause for an invitation. He settled close, nibbling at the point of Bilbo's ear. "I'm well pleased with _this_ treasure," he murmured.


	6. Chapter 6

It was an odd change from his former life, but, Smaug considered, it was not too far off. He slept when he liked, and he left the hobbit-hole when he liked, and when he walked around the town, the looks of fear and suspicion on the faces of the hobbits was familiar and comforting .

At night, he slept next to Bilbo, pressed close and with his arms around the hobbit, like how he slept with his old hoard. His hoard never snored or squirmed, but it had never kissed him back or made him feel... quite like that. There might be a word for it, but Smaug didn't know it, and had no particular need for one.

Bilbo often took Smaug with him, when working on the garden or hiking through the Shire, or walking his errands, and it was oddly pleasing to be in the hobbit's company, watching the sun glint like gold off of his hair, his eyes blue enough for gemstones; his voice was too smooth and mellow to be anything like the clinking of coins, but it was soothing nonetheless.

Smaug decided that he was, all in all, quite pleased with his lot.

Until the little hobbit arrived.

Smaug had seen him now and then; Bilbo had a strange fascination with a certain set of the young hobbits (he had used words like 'niece' and 'nephew,' which meant nothing to Smaug). Bilbo would take trips specially to visit them, bringing them presents, making them laugh and laughing with them, running through the fields with them. It put a strange feeling in Smaug, something not entirely unlike a black arrow in his soft underbelly, and he was always pleased when they left and returned home, and Biblo was all his again, like a hoard should be.

One morning, when Smaug was stirring the oatmeal (he didn't particularly like food that wasn't sweet flesh, but Bilbo did, and so Smaug tolerated it), Bilbo took his arm. "Smaug - I need to let you know. My nephew is coming to live with us."

Smaug nodded, not understanding at all. But he often did not understand Bilbo, and all typically worked out anyway.

"Frodo - you remember him, don't you? Little fellow with black hair. His parents died, and he has nobody, now."

Death. Death was something Smaug understood, and so he nodded. Someone had died, someone's heart had been pierced and sent them tumbling to a river . And now... now the little one who looked at Bilbo with adoring eyes - would be here? Smaug didn't like this.

Bilbo took the pot from off of the fire, and Smaug dropped the spoon into it as Bilbo set the pot on the kitchen table. "Don't worry about it. Frodo is a nice boy, just a little shy of you. You'll like him once you get to know him."

Smaug took a bowl from the shelf and sat at the table. "Get to know him." How did one do that? The only person Smaug knew at all was Bilbo, and he had no desire to know anyone else. Not Surinder, not those damndable wood-elves, not the odious, hairy merchant, not the suspicious townspeople.

"Yes." Bilbo spooned some oatmeal into his bowl, then drizzled some honey from the honey-pot onto it. He sucked a stray drip of honey from his finger, and Smaug thought about sweet honey on sweet skin, and licking one off of the other. Is this the kind of thing this Frodo would now participate in? He would have to share Bilbo, now?

Smaug did not like this at all. Hoards were not meant to be shared.


	7. Chapter 7

"Why are you so sullen lately?" Bilbo sighed, picking tomatoes from the jungle of vines wound around the wooden trellis, placing the perky red fruits carefully in his small basket.

'Sullen' must be some Hobbit idea, Smaug decided as he watched. Some random thing those little creatures did that bore some outwards resemblance to the sick and depressing sensation that roiled in his gut, making him want to sit in the garden in the shade instead of go on one of those rambles he used to enjoy with Bilbo, the ones that were marred with the presence of that simpering little Frodo, always sneaking his hand into Bilbo's, asking for stories or for a kiss. It made Smaug's body not want food or sex. This surely could not be summed up in a banal word like 'sullen.'

"Don't like him," Smaug muttered.

"Why on earth not?" Bilbo sighed. "Frodo likes you - he loves elves, the stories and songs. He's my nephew, and might as well be my son, now."

"You love him." Stating this outright made the evil churnings inside of Smaug even more fierce.

"Of course I do. Now come inside, I'm going to make some shortbread." Bilbo walked off, carrying the basket of tomatoes.

Smaug watched Bilbo enter the hobbit-hole. This was unsatisfactory. Hoards stayed in place - they stayed _Smaug's_ unless they were stolen by some thief, in which case he could kill the thief and retrieve the treasure. But what could Smaug do when the treasure itself walked off, when it took the hand of the thief, gladly?

Smaug's body _did_ feel like sex that night - harsher than usual, rougher; he marked Bilbo with his mouth, relishing the hobbit's startled gasps, driving deep and pulling climax out of Bilbo, _taking_ it like he used to _take_ any beautiful thing he wanted.

"Feeling better?" Bilbo gasped, catching his breath.

Smaug grunted, rolling onto his back. He didn't, actually. He felt very similar to how he did this afternoon. What he and Bilbo had was love, wasn't it? And this other love - it would drive what Smaug had out. Frodo was a hobbit - he spoke the same silly language, which sounded like Smaug's but didn't always line up with the meanings . He laughed like Bilbo, and ate like Bilbo, and wasn't that what Bilbo needed? He thought of the two of them, gold and ebony hair mixing, Frodo in Smaug's place in Bilbo's bed. "You won't need me for much longer. Not with him here."

"What are you talking about?" Bilbo asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Frodo. You love him."

The look Bilbo gave Smaug was startled. "Not like this!"

"It's all the same," Smaug replied, and given the look of horror on Bilbo's face, and the way he grabbed his robe and stumbled out of the room, it was, somehow, the wrong thing to say.

Not that it mattered. Smaug had made his decision. If he could not have his treasure anymore, he would let Frodo have it, the way he had been forced to let his glittering hoard go to the filthy fingers of the men of Lake-town. Touching his treasure, passing it amongst themselves, making free with what was rightfully _his_.

Thieves, the world was full of thieves, alwasys taking, leaving him with nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

"You look very hale for a hobbit of ninety-five," Gandalf mused, blowing a smoke-ring in the shape of a sigil Bilbo did not recognize.

Bilbo laughed. "Well enough, I suppose, for not thinking I would see sixty, once!" He blew a more conventional smoke-ring, which chased Gandalf's lustily. "Very kind of you to come for the celebration."

"Will there be fireworks?" Frodo had been doing his best to be calm and polite, but he was only just a tween, after all, and his legs jiggled eagerly.

Gandalf chuckled. "There might well be... if there are some of those sweet honey-cakes to be had."

"Oh, yes!" Frodo grinned. "We just made some yesterday, there are scores in the cellar. I'll get you one..." He scrambled to his feet, trotting inside of Bag End.

"Bring some cider while you're down there!" Bilbo called after Frodo. He was growing into a fine hobbit - a decent cook, an able gardener, and a merry lad overall. Stuff and nonsense, the idea that too many tales of dragons and elves and dwarves would ruin the boy .

"I agree," Gandalf said, "a fine boy indeed."

"You're using some strange magic to read my thoughts, aren't you?" Bilbo laughed.

"Yes, the delicate magical art of noting how fondly you look after him," Gandalf replied, laughing in turn. "If I could read thoughts, I would be a much more powerful - and frightening - magician than I am."

"You brought the dead back to life, that's plenty powerful and frightening," Bilbo mused, some of his amusement flowing from him. It poked at his mind again - memories of the elf's grey-green eyes and intense kisses - and he pushed it away, as he had gotten used to doing.

"If I could read minds, my dear Bilbo," Gandalf replied, grown serious in turn, "I would find something more useful than fireworks, to take away that sadness you carry around with you."

Bilbo shrugged. It was not the manner of hobbits, to brood, and he did his level best to avoid it; he felt some annoyance at Gandalf for bringing the matter up. "You're not much of a wizard, if you can't see why."

Gandalf sighed, a heavy sigh. "My dear Bilbo..." His voice was different, quieter, and Bilbo looked over, startled at the sadness in Gandalf's face. "I did not know you would fall in love with him. I didn't even expect him to come looking for you. I would have stopped him."

"Why?" Bilbo asked, frowning.

Gandalf looked back at Bilbo, his ancient eyes glittering with wisdom. "Smaug doesn't love - he takes, he hoards, he does not share. Love is sharing, and Smaug could never do that."

Bilbo looked away, frowning. Now that was a bit rich, wasn't it? "Doesn't and can't aren't the same. He was changing, you know. Becoming a proper..." Bilbo ran out of words. "Person."

"Until he left," Gandalf replied, quietly, and Bilbo hung his head, sadly.

"Where is he now?" Bilbo asked at tuft of grass.

"I have no idea."

Bilbo looked back up at Gandalf. "You do think I'm a foolish hobbit, don't you. The former scourge of Lake-town and the Misty Mountains, and you aren't keeping a good eye or two on him."

Gandalf pulled in a long draw on his pipe, exhaling a cloud of sweet smoke. "He is up North, where the Rangers are. They are... keeping him safe."

"If he wanted to come back, they would continue to 'keep him safe,' wouldn't they?"

"Bilbo!" Gandalf said, his voice low but forceful, and Bilbo reminded himself that he was dealing with a very powerful and wise Wizard. "Do not question the judgment of the wizards in this matter. We have discussed Smaug, and we are united in our resolve. Ah, Frodo!" he said, more loudly, as the boy came trotting back, precariously balancing three honey-cakes and two frothing mugs of cold cider.

* * *

The party that evening was everything a hobbit's birthday party should be, with laughing and dancing and fireworks and tasty food in plenty. Yet the black cloud would not lift fully from Bilbo's shoulders, and a few times that evening, he would catch Gandalf looking at him, thoughtfully.

He had strange dreams that night, haunted by Smaug's unreadable eyes and insistent tongue, and woke gasping and sticky in his covers. His body had not sent him such dreams for some time - but it was not surprising. He was not young. Ninety-five. Hale he might be, for his age, but how much time did he have left?

Bilbo was struck with a strong, almost desperate urge to pull out the ring. The ring - he had not touched it in years. But his finger itched for it, for the protection of its invisibility. He could put it on his finger, and travel north in safety; he could find the Rangers, find Smaug... and then what? They had not parted on good terms. Did Smaug even wish to come back?

Bilbo felt painfully tugged by his home, his nephew, his responsibilities and loves here, and weighed them against the thin, vague possibilities that lay to the North. Gandalf's voice echoed in his head. _Do not question the judgment of the wizards..._

He lay back in his bed, his head tired, sore, and unsettled.


	9. Chapter 9

The aging process, Bilbo considered, was rather cruel.

It took him some time to think this. His brain moved sluggishly, days running together with a fluidity that was more suited to dreaming. When had it all started? It took some time to bring his thoughts around to _Rivendell_. Handing over his mail and sword to Frodo... Frodo. He had grown into a fine hobbit, yes, he and his friends... they had done some errand, he remembered, as he was jolted. Jolted? Oh, yes, a cart. He was in a cart, with his head on Frodo's shoulder. A good lad, Frodo, even if he had lost Bilbo's ring, Rather careless, that.

It took some gentle urging from Frodo to get Bilbo out of the cart, and he looked around, blinking at the unwelcome light. He did not want light, and walking, he just wanted to lie down, and close his eyes, and nap a bit...

Then he saw the ship.

Some of his old strength came back to him as he looked at it - and yes, even his mind regained some clairty. An elf-ship, its lines too graceful for the art of men. Elves stood next to it, the wise face of Elrond among them - and Gandalf, yes, looking at Bilbo with a fondness that Bilbo felt in return. Gandalf's eyes promised just one more adventure - one that Bilbo felt - he felt _ready_ for.

* * *

The ship glided across the water, day after day, the ride smooth as glass; Bilbo had no way to judge its speed, but he felt no hurry. Every day he spent on the ship, he felt more like his old self, and he told Gandalf this, as they sat beside each other, enjoying a pipe and watching the seagulls frolic. "I feel twice the hobbit I was when I came aboard. Why, I was positively addled at Rivendell!"

"You were growing old, my dear Bilbo," Gandalf replied, "and you were not long for this world. But you are moving now towards the Undying Lands, and you will find that your body will be... refreshed."

Bilbo nodded. "I could do with a little 'refreshing,' I can tell you!" He blew a plume of smoke, relishing how easily he could breathe, not the desperate hitching gasps of a few weeks ago.

"I almost wouldn't recognize you, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo replied, laughing as he sat next to Bilbo and embraced him enthusiastically. The boy was more himself, as well, Bilbo was pleased to note - not the moping, somber hobbit he had been when he returned from... whatever that errand had been. Frodo hadn't wanted to talk about it. "I can't remember the last time your hair wasn't white." He ran his hand through Bilbo's hair.

Bilbo pushed Frodo's hand aside. "Respect your elders, boy," he chided, trying not to laugh.

"You're not going to look like my elder for long, at this rate," Frodo replied, sitting back. "This ship is doing you some good."

"You, as well. You look a proper hobbit again, not all thin and sour." Bilbo passed his pouch of pipeweed to Frodo. Yes, he felt himself again, the Bilbo who ran after a baker's dozen of dwarves one fine spring day, not even a pocket-handkerchief to his name. The Bilbo who had fought giant spiders and stolen treasure from under a dragon's nose.

Dragon. Treasure. Bilbo leaned forward, looking at the water. That had been one advantage of being so old, he thought. His mind had been frail and sieve-like, unable to hold to anything for long, unable to convincingly remember a certain dragonkin who... Bilbo shook himself. Useless, now, to remember, to even think of it. His old life was behind him; Bag End, the Misty Mountains, Lake-down, all of it. His life here would be new, so different that it would bear no resemblance to the hobbit he used to be, the foolish Bilbo with his foolish notions of taming a dragon, making it domestic fireside pet.

He felt like a very different hobbit indeed when the ship finally pulled into harbor. Anyone looking at him as he stood next to Frodo would have thought him the older brother of the dark-haired hobbit, not a fond uncle almost fifty years his senior.

A few broad-shouldered elves stood at the dock, grasping the ropes thrown from the ship and tying them swiftly and securely to the mooring-posts. They stepped back, and Bilbo noted that more elves stood some ways back from the dock, like a serene welcoming committee, watching quietly as the short walkway was extended, and Elrond exited in the company of the elves Bilbo had met aboard the ship, Galadriel and Celeborn.

Gandalf pressed at Bilbo's shoulder, and he left the ship, as well. It felt odd, disembarking from this ship to a land where... well, there were no hobbits here, were there? Only himself and Frodo. He forced himself to feign confidence for Frodo's sake, but it was intimidating, he had to confess to himself. To walk out of this ship, trotting forward to keep pace with the long-legged elves, approaching the grave elves that formed the welcoming committee. Many elves, one in particular who caught his eye, pale, with flaming red hair...

Bilbo's breath caught in his throat.

"'Tis not often that the council of wizards admits to a mistake," Gandalf murmured in Bilbo's ear, but Bilbo was already off, running across the lawn, not caring terribly what kind of a scene he was making - and Smaug seemed not to care, either, running to meet him, sweeping Bilbo in his arms, firmly and intently.

"Bilbo," Smaug purred, "it seems I have you, again."

"Yes," Bilbo panted, trying to catch a breath with lungs that were being squeezed rather hard. He wished he had the skill of the elf-poets to say what he felt, but he had only the silly words of a hobbit. "I... don't know how to tell you... how much I missed you..."

"Then show me, instead."

* * *

"Well," Frodo said, startled into incoherence.

"Oh, my dear hobbit. Your uncle is flesh and blood, just like the rest of us," Gandalf replied, laughter in his voice.

"Apparently!" Frodo's ears were turning pink.

"Why don't you come with me?" Gandalf said, taking Frodo's hand and leading him down a smooth dirt path. "I'll show you the village, it's quite lovely..."

It was a long time before Bilbo was ready to leave the beach.


End file.
